A padlock secured the cage, and Steve began working at the hinges with his bare hands, trying to lift the pin. Just then, the door to the shed flew open and a broad-shouldered man with a tangled beard stepped inside. The man could have been thirty or sixty or anywhere in between. He wore a dirty red Mackinaw and a winter hat with fur earflaps, and his face was smudged with black splotches that looked like charcoal dust. He gripped a stick as thick as a man's forearm. Probably carved from an oak tree, the stick was curved at the top like a shepherd's staff.

"I'm the boy's uncle," Steve said. "He's coming with me."

"He ain't going nowhere," the man said.

Bobby continued rocking.

The man closed the distance between them and drew back the curved stick. His voice rumbled, "'Heal the sick, cleanse the lepers, raise the dead, cast out devils.' Matthew, Chapter Ten, Verse Eight."

"Get the f.u.c.k out of my way. Solomon. Chapter One. You don't want to hear Chapter Two."

"Be gone!" The man swung the stick, and Steve took the impact on the shoulder and staggered backward. The man swung again and Steve stopped the stick with both hands and shoved back, hard. He slammed the man against the shed wall and pushed the stick to his neck. Steve's face was buried in the collar of the soggy Mackinaw, and a mangy smell like a wet dog made him gag. The man squirmed and gasped for air and tried to knee Steve in the groin. Steve kept up the pressure, jamming the stick hard into the man's Adam's apple. When his attacker's face turned crimson, a gurgle coming from his throat, Steve released him, and the man dropped to the floor.

Still holding the stick, Steve turned to Bobby. "The padlock. Where's the key?"

The boy stopped rocking, but he still hadn't said a word.

"Bobby, do you understand what I'm saying?"

"Uncle Steve, look out!"

Steve pivoted and swung the stick like a baseball bat even before he saw the man coming up from the floor, a hunting knife in his hand. Head down, hips turning, it was a compact but powerful swing.

The stick caught the man squarely above the temple with a crunch of bone: he dropped like a mallard felled by a hunter. Steve stood over him, breathing hard, aware of his own pounding heart. Frozen in place, filled with fear. Had he killed him?

"We better go, Uncle Steve."

The voice was so close it startled him. Bobby was outside the cage, the back panel removed. "Mom doesn't know I can do this."

The man on the floor was moaning, trying to get to his feet. Thank G.o.d he wasn't dead. Steve grabbed Bobby and swung him into his arms, stunned by how light he was. All elbows and knees, no meat on his bones.

They ducked out of the shed. Dogs barked. Lights flicked on in the farmhouse. Steve could make out a shadowy figure on the porch and the silhouette of what looked like a rifle or a shotgun.

"You! Stop!"

Carrying Bobby, Steve took off. He headed for the tree line, heard shouts from behind, looked back over his shoulder, caught glimpses of men with torches. A shotgun roared. Then another blast, echoing across the valley. He ran through the woods, leaping over fallen trees, slipping on wet rocks, crossing a stream, chugging hard up a hill and down the other side, through a strand of mahogany trees, running hard and not stopping until there were no more torches, no more gunshots, and no more men.

They were in the car headed toward Tallaha.s.see before Steve spoke again. "I didn't think you remembered me."

"You took me snorkeling," Bobby said.

"That's right. I did. You must have been about five or six."

"It was September eleventh. I was five plus eight months and three days. We saw lots of green-and-yellow fish with blue spots that sparkled."

"Angelfish."

"Holacanthus ciliaris. I gave one a name."

"Really?"

"You told me not to touch the coral because it'll break and it takes hundreds of years to grow back. I liked the sea fans best because they wave at you like they're friendly. And the parrotfish. Sparisoma viride. They look like parrots but they don't talk."

"How do you remember all that? How do you know their Latin names?"

The boy's thin shoulders shrugged.

"Do you want to go to my house?"

"Eleven white stones from the driveway to the front door."

"I guess there are. Would you like to go there?"

"I named the angelfish 'Steve,'" Bobby said.

Now, ten months later, Bobby was putting on weight-thanks to the paninis-and becoming more comfortable around people. He said good-bye to his grandfather, hung up the phone, and came over to the counter just as Steve opened the lid of the grill.

"Turn them a hundred eighty degrees," Bobby said.

"That's what I'm doing." Steve slid the sandwiches around to cross-hatch the bread with grill marks.

"Not a hundred ninety," Bobby ordered. "The marks won't be even."

"Got it."

The melting cheese sizzled seductively, and an aroma of salty sweetness filled the kitchen. "How come you and Pop always argue?" Bobby asked.

"I guess because we've each done things that disappoint the other."

Bobby used his tongue to snap a rubber band on his braces. "Do I disappoint you?"

"Never. Not once."

The boy's smile was all orthodonture. "Don't burn the sandwiches, Uncle Steve."

"Have I told you today how much I love you, kiddo?"

"You tell me every day, Uncle Steve."

"Well, today, I'm telling you twice."

Five.

MONEY, s.e.x, AND MURDER.

Inside the Justice Building, Steve was feeling as gray as the weather outside. The morning session ended with a Customs Officer testifying that Amancio Pedrosa was harboring a menagerie of smuggled birds, including a foulmouthed c.o.c.katoo.

A beaming Victoria then crowed: "Having established a prima facie case, we rest, Your Honor."

Steve made his obligatory motion for a directed verdict. Judge Gridley called a sidebar conference and asked his advice: Should he take the over or the under on the Michigan StatePenn State game? The under, Steve said. The weather forecast for central Pennsylvania was wind and rain. The judge agreed, then denied Steve's motion.

With no pyrotechnics to ignite, Steve had spent considerable time studying his opponent. Today Victoria wore a dark, tweedy jacket with a matching skirt. She looked professional and businesslike-and, given the conservative wool, unaccountably s.e.xy. Next to her at the prosecution table, Ray Pincher whispered to a variety of aides, who brought him messages and kneeled at his feet like supplicants to a king.

Now, returning from lunch, Steve hurried along the crowded corridor, weaving past sheriff's deputies, touring schoolchildren, and lawyers soliciting clients. A courtroom door opened and an elderly man toddled out; Steve braked but still b.u.mped the man. "Whoops. Sorry, Marvin," he apologized.

"Watch out, boychik, or I'll sue you for whiplash," Marvin Mendelsohn said.

Marvin the Maven was the unofficial chief of the Courthouse Gang, a posse of retirees who moseyed from courtroom to courtroom, observing the juiciest trials. The Maven was a dapper little man, almost eighty, with a pencil mustache, oversize black-framed gla.s.ses, and a bald head that shone under the fluorescent lights. Today he wore gray wool slacks and a double-breasted blue blazer with gold b.u.t.tons. A paisley cravat of shimmering silk blossomed like a colorful bouquet at his neck.

"Looking good, Marvin."

"Horses.h.i.t. My sciatica's killing me. You wanna sue my chiropractor?"

To most lawyers, Marvin and his Gang were either invisible or bothersome. Alter k.o.c.kers. Old farts who clogged the cafeteria line and kibitzed in the corridors. Steve enjoyed their company. He lunched with them, listened to their stories, took their advice. Marvin the Maven had uncanny instincts about jury selection, particularly with women, where Steve needed the most help. Marvin had owned a women's shoe store in Buffalo for forty years before fleeing the winters. Maybe it was selling thousands of pumps and slingbacks, stilettos and sandals over the years that gave Marvin insights most men lack. Or maybe it was just listening to the women themselves.

"So what you got going besides your farshtinkener bird trial?" Marvin asked, as they made their way down the corridor.

"I'm trying to hustle Katrina Barksdale."

"The woman who shtupped her husband to death?"

"Can you imagine the trial? Money, s.e.x, and murder."

"Save me a seat in the front row."

"If I got that case, I could pay my bills, get a new car, hire a tutor for Bobby."

"I love you like a grandson, Steve, but why would this woman hire a low-rent lawyer like you?"

"Because Victoria Lord's going to recommend me."

"You romancing that fancy lady prosecutor? That your way in?"

"All business, Marvin."

"What happened to that nice Jewish girl you were going out with?"

"Sally Panther? She's a Miccosukee."

"So? Indians are the lost tribes of Israel."

"Whatever she is, she dumped me."

"Okay, so sniff around after Miss Lord. But if you ask me, she'll buy her pumps at Wal-Mart before she brings you a case."

As they walked, Steve told Marvin his game plan. He was about to put on the defense case in the Pedrosa trial. He'd dazzle Victoria with his footwork and hypnotize her with his words. He'd win, but he'd win nice.

Marvin gave him a skeptical look. "You're playing by the rules?"

"Strictly Marquis of Queensberry."

"This I gotta see."

"You don't think I can do it?"

Marvin shrugged. "Why do you think the Gang watches your trials?"

"Because I'm the only lawyer who'll talk to you."

"Because you're Barnum and Bailey. You try a case, there's always a dozen clowns crawling out of a little car."

"Not today."

Marvin was quiet a moment. Then he said: "Sometimes a woman who needs a size nine will lie to herself. Try to squeeze into an eight-and-a-half."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Maybe you don't know it, boychik, but getting the Barksdale case is your alibi. It's the girl you're after."

"Absolutely not."

"Good, because this one's not your type."

"Meaning what?"

"She's cla.s.sy, is all. No offense."

"Jeez, Marvin. I thought you loved me like one of your grandsons."

"They never visit," the old man said.

The corridor was jammed with the usual flotsam and jetsam. Sheriff's deputies herded shackled prisoners from holding cells to courtrooms, bail bondsmen trailing in their wake like rudderfish after sharks. The prisoners' girlfriends and wives lined the walls, yelling encouragement or insults at their men, depending on the current state of their relationships.

The elevator door opened, and an attractive, trim woman in her seventies walked out. "Hola, Marvin. Stephen."

Teresa Torao wore a stylish two-b.u.t.ton herringbone jacket with a matching camel skirt. Her dark hair was tied back in a bun with what looked like ivory chopsticks.

"Teresa," the men said in unison.

Teresa's husband, Oscar, had owned a chain of funeral homes in Havana but lost the business-and his life-when he opposed Fidel Castro. In the early 1960's, Teresa brought their children to Miami and worked for minimum wage as a mortician's a.s.sistant. Within five years, she had her own license and opened Funeraria Torao on Calle Ocho. By the time she turned the businesses over to her children, Teresa owned seven funeral homes, a jai-alai fronton, and a Chevrolet dealership.

In Steve's accounting ledger-a ragged notebook where he recorded his income, when he had any-Teresa Torao was listed as Client 001. Looking back, he wondered if he could have made it that first year if she hadn't hired him to represent her companies. Since then, they had grown close. Teresa adored Bobby, taking him to the Seaquarium and baking him pastelitos de guayaba. It was almost time for her homemade crema de vie, the anise Christmas drink that makes eggnog seem like Slim-Fast.